The world breaks, and Tobin Kreel gets the worst class in the system: Quartermaster.
No combat skills. No magic. Just an interface that counts how many people are still alive and how long until the food runs out. Fourteen survivors. A broken pack golem. A disgraced Shield-Captain who thinks he’s dead weight. And the Blackroad – a void that swallows everything it touches – closing in fast.
Tobin can’t fight what’s coming. But he can count it, track it, and outmaneuver it. Ration by ration. Deal by deal. Asset by cold, calculated asset. The system rewards him for it, too. That’s the part that should worry him.
Because the people following him aren’t inventory slots. Not yet. And the further he pushes into the frontier, the harder it gets to remember the difference.
